In her long and often turbulent marriage to Leo Tolstoy, Sophia Andreevna Tolstoy put up with a lot, but “The Kreutzer Sonata” qualified as special punishment. Published in 1889, the story presented Tolstoy’s increasingly radical views on sexual relations and marriage through a frenzied monologue delivered by a narrator who, in a fit of jealousy and disgust, murdered his wife.

In her diary, Sophia wrote: “I do not know how or why everyone connected ‘The Kreutzer Sonata’ with our own married life, but this is what has happened.” Members of the Tolstoy family circle and the czar himself had expressed pity for her, she complained. “And it isn’t just other people,” she added. “I, too, know in my heart that this story is directed against me, and that it has done me a great wrong, humiliated me in the eyes of the world and destroyed the last vestiges of love between us.”

Convinced that the story was “untrue in everything relating to a young woman’s experiences,” Sophia wrote two novellas setting forth her own views, “Whose Fault?” and “Song Without Words,” which both languished in the archives of the Tolstoy Museum until their recent rediscovery and publication in Russia. Michael R. Katz, a retired professor of Russian and Eastern European studies at Middlebury College, has translated both stories into English and included them in “The Kreutzer Sonata Variations,” coming from Yale University Press on Tuesday, adding to a flurry of recent work appraising Tolstoy’s wife as a figure in her own right.

“My first reaction on reading the stories was astonishment that they had existed, and nobody knew about them,” Mr. Katz said in a recent interview. “My second reaction was: These aren’t bad stories. They may not be first-rate literature, but they come from an educated, cultured, reflective woman of strong character who not only had views different from her husband’s but dared to express them, initially with the idea that they would be published.”

“Whose Fault?,” written sometime between 1891 and 1894, tells the story of the 18-year-old Anna, well born and well educated, who envisions marriage as a union of two minds, soul mates sharing a love of philosophy and the arts, enjoying the same leisure activities together and devoting themselves to their children.

Ardent, spirited and attractive, Anna catches the eye of an urbane family friend, Prince Prozorsky, almost twice her age, as was Tolstoy when he married Sophia. His conversational gifts and social graces disguise a mediocre intellect and a roué’s view of the opposite sex.

In the margins of her notebooks, Sophia transcribed excerpts from “The Kreutzer Sonata” that served as debating points, guiding her as she described a marriage heading toward disaster and, in the end, murder, but told from a woman’s point of view. The complaints itemized, in an incandescent rage, by Tolstoy’s narrator find a counterargument in his wife’s rueful narrative of disappointed love, of the mismatch between male sexual desire and female hunger for emotional satisfaction, of the differing expectations and demands imposed by childbirth and child care.

“Song Without Words” ventures beyond the chaste romanticism of “Whose Fault?” to explore the fluid boundary between intellectual and sexual attraction. Written in 1898, the story presents a thinly disguised version of Sophia’s intense friendship with the composer Sergei Taneyev, who spent the summers of 1895 and 1896 at Yasnaya Polyana, the Tolstoy estate south of Moscow. Like her creator, the story’s heroine, left distraught by a death in the family, finds joy in the world of music that, to her distress, leads to an infatuation with the composer himself.

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None of the main characters in the stories correspond precisely to their real-life models, but the atmosphere of conflict and disillusionment accurately reflects the Tolstoy marriage, especially in the years after Tolstoy underwent a spiritual crisis and fashioned a new, idiosyncratic brand of Christianity that became the focus of his creative life.

This newfound faith embroiled him in a tangle of contradictions that bedeviled both him and his wife up to the moment of his death in 1910. He was a rich landowner who saw private property as evil, an egalitarian surrounded by servants, an artist who rejected almost all art as pernicious, an evangelist for celibacy who fathered 13 children and remained sexually active into his 80s.

“The Kreutzer Sonata Variations” has been assembled as a kind of dossier. Mr. Katz provides a new translation of Tolstoy’s story and surrounds it with material that sheds light on the furor that it touched off. In addition to the two novellas by Sophia, it includes an angry anti-“Kreutzer” story written by Tolstoy’s son Lev Lvovich Tolstoy, titled “Chopin’s Prelude,” and excerpts from Sophia’s letters, diaries and her memoir, “My Life,” another work that gathered dust in the archives for decades.

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The book adds momentum to a revisionist view of Sophia that has gathered speed recently. In Tolstoy’s later years, and long after his death, his disciples cast her in the role of villain in the family drama, the shrew who did her best to keep Tolstoy away from his important work as a social prophet and to gain control over his literary estate. Soviet scholars, for ideological reasons, regarded her diaries and her extensive memoirs, recorded on 20,000 typewritten pages and covering 55 years of her life, as trivial and too critical of a cherished national symbol.

As the archives have opened up, the tide has turned. The Leo Tolstoy State Museum allowed Andrew Donskov, a Russian scholar at the University of Ottawa, to bring out an English translation of “My Life,” published in 2010 by the University of Ottawa Press, and to publish her collected literary works in Russian.

Alexandra Popoff, another Canadian scholar, made extensive use of the museum’s archives for “Sophia Tolstoy: A Biography” (the Free Press), also published in 2010, and in the same year, the museum produced, in lavish style, Sophia’s two novellas and her son’s story, the impetus for Mr. Katz’s book. The caricature has gradually evolved into a portrait of a highly cultured woman with a valid claim to stake as a fiction writer and memoirist.

Oddly, it was Sophia who came to the rescue when “The Kreutzer Sonata” fell afoul of government censors. As custodian of her husband’s literary work, she made a special trip to St. Petersburg in 1891 to plead the story’s cause before Czar Alexander III and gain his permission to include it in a new edition of Tolstoy’s writings.

Using charm and sophistry, she argued that “The Kreutzer Sonata” made the case for sexual purity, surely a good thing. And besides, she added, a favor from the czar might encourage her husband to resume writing works like “Anna Karenina.”

“Ah, how good that would be!” he replied. “What a very great writer he is!” The ban was lifted.

A version of this article appears in print on August 20, 2014, on Page C1 of the New York edition with the headline: More Than a Century Later, Sophia Tolstoy Has Her Say. Order Reprints|Today's Paper|Subscribe